


Killing the Angel in the House

by snowballjane (spycandy)



Category: Being Human
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/snowballjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight Annie-centric drabbles, mostly from the gaps between episodes of season 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing the Angel in the House

**Author's Note:**

> "And the phantom was a woman": Virginia Woolf's essay 'Professions for Women', from which the title is also taken.

1.

“Ooh, I smell baking!” called George as he clattered through the front door, laden with laundry bags. He inhaled deeply. “Chocolate-y baking?”

Before he had even taken his keys out of the lock, a chocolate brownie was thrust under his nose. “Taste it,” said Annie, bouncing on her toes with impatience. “It's been driving me up the wall not to be able to.”

George took a large bite. The brownie was rich and crumbly and still warm from the oven. It was delicious.

“Oh, wow,” he said. “It's like being haunted by Nigella Lawson. Annie, you're a Domestic Ghostess.”

2.

In the bad days after Becca's death, Annie lingered in Mitchell's room, an invisible, watchful presence she hoped might be comforting. Even when her fingers were so insubstantial that they slipped through the fabric of his t-shirt, she pressed her cold hand to a shoulder shaking with grief and guilt and withdrawal and kept silent vigil.

She brought more tea than he could possibly ever have drunk, even if all she said was, “hey” and, “I'll leave this here.” Later, she collected the mugs – and if they were empty rather than cold, she felt a little thrill of victory.

3.

George and Mitchell sprawled on the sofa, watching football on TV, surrounded by the detritus of beer and snacks. Annie sat cross-legged on the floor, reading the travel section of the Sunday paper and tried to tune out her housemates' banter. Finally she gave up and headed for the kitchen.

“Bring more beer!” called Mitchell, laughing. “Annie's the ghostess with the mostest.”

She paused in front of the fridge, staring at the place where she had de-materialised, escaping Tolly's grasp by literally becoming nothingness.

Then she took two beers and a forced smile back into the living room.

4.

The front door slammed closed and another long, lonely day stretched out in front of Annie. The breakfast dishes would take just five minutes and then she would spend the day haunting empty rooms.

She knew the boys didn’t mean to leave so many of the household chores to her; they had jobs, lives, in the world outside the house. And she didn’t. They’d probably live in a cheerful mess if they’d moved to any house but this one.

So why did it feel like her death was a mockery of the life she had dreamed of making with Owen?

5.

She remembered things now. Like the way Owen had dismissed her plans or tolerated her ideas as though he was doing her a favour letting her decorate the house, even though she was a qualified designer. How much she'd wanted his approval.

The dishes on the shelf above the sink rattled. Annie peered through the window, wondering whether roadworks were about to start. A day of loud drilling was all she needed. How was she ever supposed to rest in peace? Hah. She apparently wouldn't be doing that any time soon.

An empty glass jar flung itself into the wall.

6.

“Oh, my dear,” said the Duchess of Beaufort, appearing by the edge of the lake. “What an outfit to die in.”

The Duchess herself was a walking cloud of ruffles, but the younger ghost politely refrained from retorting. Gilbert had helped, but perhaps one of Bristol’s more senior ghosts could offer her more perspective.

“I look after the rose gardens,” explained her ladyship. “although it’s frustrating when the gardeners get the credit. I won two gold medals last year.”

“Congratulations.”

“You have so much potential.”

“Had,” corrected Annie, and she wasn’t even sure about that.

“No,” insisted the Duchess. “Have”

7.

When the ambulance and the crowds had gone, Annie walked back into the backyard, still picturing the child lying almost lifeless in the road. So unfair, so familiar.

She poked at the ashes of the photos of her life, wondering what was left now. She'd talked a good fight about not letting her friends be evicted by Owen, but they'd both run off into the night. So there was just her, alone with her life unlived.

She focussed her will on the flames still flickering in the barbecue and they flared bright and angry. Oh, she wasn't powerless any more.

8.

They celebrated Annie's birthday with a girly movie marathon. After all they’d been through, it was pleasant sitting together in the dark, watching other people find happiness.

From Mitchell there was a set of Jane Austen novels, and she was touched he'd remembered her love of _Pride and Prejudice_. George gave a pretty scarf (“I know you can't change clothes, but you can accessorize, right?”).

Afterwards in her room, Annie spread her scarf over the back of her chair and placed the books on a shelf. Then she curled up with a sketchpad and pencil, the night full of possibilities.

The End


End file.
